Her moan rips free, wild and filthy, and I devour it. I suck her clit hard, flicking in ruthless strokes, before plunging lower, fucking her with every thrust of my tongue. Her hips chase me, riding me, and I let her grind against my face until she shatters.
“Fuck, that’s it, Angel. Let go.”
Her back bows, a cry tearing from her throat as she comes, body shaking, thighs quivering against my hold. I don’t stop until I’ve wrung every tremor out of her, until her breath breaks on my name.
When I finally rise, my lips are wet with her, my mouth marked by her taste. I cover her, kiss her deep, feeding her what I stole. She’s wrecked, dazed, her body boneless under mine—yet her hands fumble at my belt, frantic, greedy for more.
“I need you,” she whispers.
I strip off my pants and boxers in one motion, and she stares down at my cock like she’s forgotten how big I am.
“Are you clean?” I ask, voice husky.
She nods. “I’m clean. But…I’m not on birth control.”
“You’re my wife now,” I remind her, brushing her hair back from her face, “I won’t have anything between us.” A dangerous smile curls my lips. “So, Russian roulette it is.”
I don’t give her time to second-guess it. I guide myself to her entrance, tease her with the head of my cock, dragging it through her wetness.
Then I push inside.
She gasps, her whole body tensing before she melts beneath me as I sink into her inch by inch. The heat, the tightness—Christ, it’s everything. Not something I could ever forget. It’s been carved into me since the night we met. “Fuck, Zara,” I groan, bottoming out in her. “You were made for me.”
Her eyes snap open, glassy and wild, and she clutches at me like I’m the only thing keeping her tethered. “Say it again,” she whispers, desperate. “Say my name again, Enzo.”
I thrust into her, deeper, harder, my voice rough. “Zara.” Another thrust. “Zara.” Her body seizes around me, every squeeze answering the sound of her own name falling from my mouth.
She meets me, hips lifting, nails clawing down my back. “Enzo,” she gasps, breath shuddering with the effort. It’s no longer just sex—it’s a prayer, a chant, the rhythm of my name tangled with hers.
Every stroke drives it deeper, a litany of need and surrender. Her voice trembles, mine growls, until it feels less like we’re speaking and more like we’re worshipping, calling each other into existence with every thrust, every breath, every shiver of flesh against flesh.
I drop my mouth to her ear, voice rough and dangerous. “I intend to properly consummate this marriage.” My teeth scrape her jaw. “You want to be bred, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes,” she moans, arching beneath me, her thighs locked tight around my waist. “God, yes, Enzo.”
My rhythm turns punishing, relentless. Her cries are raw, torn from deep inside her, her body quaking beneath every stroke. “I can feel how badly you want it,” I snarl, dipping to bite her shoulder hard enough to mark her. “Your body’s begging for it.”
“Please,” she gasps, voice shaking, stripped of anything but need. “Fill me up. I want your cum inside me.”
Her plea detonates in my veins. A guttural growl rips from my chest as I drive into her harder, claiming every inch, every sound she gives me. She shatters again, crying out my name like a prayer, clinging to me as if I’m the only salvation she’ll ever know.
“Such a good wife, coming on my cock,” I praise, fucking her through her release. “Fuck, I’m going to fill this pussy.” Two more brutal thrusts and I’m gone—roaring as I spill inside her, grinding as deep as I can go, pouring everything into her body until I’m emptied, until there’s nothing left but fire in my veins and her name on my lips.
My hips stutter, the aftershocks rolling through me, the heat of it mixing with hers as our slick bodies writhe, frantic then slowing, breathless in the wreckage we’ve made of each other.
“I’ll fill you again and again,” I rasp against her neck, pressing my mouth to her skin in a vow as much as a threat. “Until you’re carrying my child. Until the world can take one look at you and know who you belong to.”
The first thingI notice is the ache. A deep, pulsing soreness in my thighs, the bruised sting on my hip where Enzo bit me, the dull throb of satisfaction. It’s the kind of ache that doesn’t let you forget what you did or who you did it with. Every inch of me is stamped with him, claimed.
I stretch under the silk sheet, the fabric sliding over my bare skin, and a soft sound escapes me before I can stop it. God. I should be furious, terrified, ready to claw my way out of here. Instead, my body hums with satisfaction and compliancy. The memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice rasping my name, it was prayer and profanity all at once.
The bed is too big, too perfect, and yet it still feels full even with him sprawled beside me. Enzo’s half on his stomach, arm flung over the pillow where I’d been, muscles slack for once, his features softened by sleep. He looks younger like this. Almost human.
The illusion shatters with the faintest knock at the door. Barely a tap, but it sends my heart sprinting into my throat. I pull the sheet tighter around me as the door swings open without waiting for my permission.
A woman enters, balancing a silver tray. Her expression is carefully blank, eyes lowered as if even glancing too long at me would be a mistake. She sets the tray on the table near the corner,then moves to the curtains. In one sweep, she floods the room with daylight, and I flinch at the sudden glare.
Then she clicks the remote and the flat screen mounted across from the bed flickers on. Morning news. The anchor is mid-report about an ongoing investigation into last night’s cathedral shootout. Headlines roll across the screen:“Gangland Wedding Interrupted in St. Bellamy Violence.”
